If this book were evidence, I, as a juror, would vote to acquit based on reasonable doubt. Monaghan and Cawthorne fail to make much of a connection (maybe no connection) between Walter’s secret diary and the gruesome Jack the Ripper murders. For example, Walter often gave his girls handkerchiefs; Handkerchiefs were found on the victims. As a hunter Walter owned a sharp knife and had a basic understanding of anatomy; the victims were mutilated by someone with a basic understanding of anatomy. The sight of blood aroused Walter; the crime scenes were bloody. The authors spend chapters and chapters emphasizing Walter’s unquenchable desire to deflower virgins. The Ripper’s victims were exclusively middle aged prostitutes.

Perhaps, somewhere in the eleven volume tome, more compelling evidence exists. The excerpts the authors chose to publish contain some of the most shocking and heinous sexual content many readers will ever encounter. Walter’s diary ranges in style from “letters to Penthouse” to detailed descriptions of criminal sexual deviance. That Walter is depraved is not in doubt; that Walter is Jack the Ripper is.

One thing the book does manage to convey is the shame of a social structure that allows such horrid crimes to occur. That so many are complicit in Walter’s licentiousness is hard to believe. That authorities ignore the plight of sexually enslaved women is disgraceful.

I love a good true crime where an author reveals the criminal through a series of facts tied together with a touch of innuendo and a few inferences. Unfortunately, in this book the innuendo is nothing more than lurid exposition and inferences giant leaps of faith.

Monaghan and Cawthorne fall far short of convincing me Walter is Jack the Ripper. For me, Jack the Ripper's Secret Confession was nothing more than a dirty book.